I walk the sn******g path
When I tiptoe through the tulips of
My own grotesquely overweaning self-regard
That's right, I am well hard
And if you f** with Snugglebun
Then the righteous retribution of everyone but the Pilsbury f**ing Doughboy shall be thine
That's right, no c*nt can be angry all the time, all the way from arsewipe to dinner time
That's right, not even if some other c*nt has had his girlfriend in a pinch
In a clinch with curlicues that wobble in a cubicle down at Warrander baths
Like the scenery in a sitcom with extremely few laughs
That's right, there are some things in this world not imagined at your business school
Derek William Donaldson, perp of Fettesgate
Have pity on his victims, the frightened, helpless policemen
Whose fate was so awful they had to remain silent
Their pants down in evidence
They all had vitiligo
Some say sly reptilians control our every wish
By application of a fishy coat of vinyl matt emulsion
To our dreams, while others point at the pitiful figure of poor Sigourney Weaver
On a small electric golfcart at Gleneagles and say it's all the proof you need
Of free will
You should be reading Spinoza instead, boss
You're better off dead, that's right, boss
If you haven't read Spinoza
You heard that right, boss
And what were you doing Wednesday night, boss
Wading through sh**e in hobnail boots, fool
At the slack end of the graveyard shift
Behind the old incinerator down at Warriston Crematorium, fool
When you could've been waltzing with Matilda, with Matilda instead
Now she's dead after being forced instead to operate an industrial-stength dil*o
Several hours beyond the manufacturer's recommended limit
Innit, fool?
(Matilda, you k**ed her)
I walk the sn******g path
When I tiptoe through the tulips of
My own grotesquely overweaning self-regard
That's right, I am well hard
And if you f** with Snugglebun
Then the righteous retribution of everyone but the Pilsbury f**ing Doughboy shall be thine
That's right, no c*nt can be angry all the time, all the way from arsewipe to dinner time
That's right, not even if some other c*nt has had his girlfriend in a pinch
In a clinch with curlicues that wobble in a cubicle down at Warrander baths
Like the scenery in a sitcom with extremely few laughs
Hobnail boots, fool, the graveyard shift
(Matilda, you k**ed her)